


Her Favorite Color

by Pygmy Puff (ppuff)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Timeline, Character Explorations, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Javert Raises Cosette, Not A Fix-It, Or at least it started out that way, Post-Madeleine Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-12 13:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2110854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ppuff/pseuds/Pygmy%20Puff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story started as a 5+1fic with the working title "Five Times Javert Met Jean Valjean in Prison and One Time by the Sea," but it grew into something much bigger. It is at the core a character study of two what-if scenarios: What if Javert raises Cosette? And: What if Jean Valjean remains in prison? The story spans Jean Valjean's life, so yes, it follows Valjean until his end.</p><p>
  <em>“I have the child and you remain here for life. Are we agreed?”</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Resistance

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [她最爱的颜色](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11438877) by [Chlokers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chlokers/pseuds/Chlokers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javert arrests Jean Valjean. Valjean makes an offer. Does he accept?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been made into an amazing storyboard video by sealbatross (Sam) at https://youtu.be/c9rBn_mkZB8 -- please go watch!

“In!” Javert pushed Jean Valjean into Montreuil-sur-Mer’s town jail, his voice as rough as the hand that sent the former mayor stumbling forward several steps. Valjean did not resist.

A thrill of triumph rushed through Javert. He’d dreamed of this moment for years, to see a false magistrate exposed for the depraved imposter he really was. And today—he allowed his eyes to stay on the slumped back a moment longer, imagining the defeat that must be etched on Valjean’s face—he could claim today as the reason why he had devoted so many years to serving justice, remaining faithful in his admittedly dull existence in Montreuil-sur-Mer: a renegade from the law had been apprehended, and it wouldn’t have been possible without him.

Javert was by all accounts not a particularly prideful man. There was no glory in the meticulous police work that he had had to perform on a daily basis. Mundane trivialities such as wagon theft and the curiously self-shifting stone that never sat still between M. LeBlanc’s property boundary line and his neighbor’s yielded neither excitement nor honor. Worse, being diligent and excellent in his work had made Inspector Javert the recipient of one too many “I didn’t do it!” and “I’m afraid I must be on my way… urgent matter, you see,” that is to say, law and order were welcome by the town’s citizens only when the wielder of justice wasn’t seen, heard, or felt.

And so Javert took immeasurable delight in refusing Valjean time to stay by the deceased whore’s bedside, in twisting the fake mayor’s arms behind his back, in hearing the satisfying _click_ of his manacles over those wrists, and in processing him from the town’s hospital to the jail. This time, the fearful glances weren’t directed at him. This time, Inspector Javert was seen as performing the highest duty to protect Montreuil-sur-Mer’s safety.

Already, whispers began to spread among the gossipmongers and idlers. Javert was, for once, thankful for these good-for-nothings. By tomorrow, the hypocrisy of Jean Valjean would be known by all.

He slammed the cell door shut. The town jail was dark and smelled of something dead and rotten, but Javert could only taste the sweetness of vindication, of having his suspicions finally proved right. He chose not to remember the shameful incident when he begged a false magistrate—a criminal!—for dismissal. No, the Prefecture’s letter had muddled his mind on that day. He should have taken pause to consider the incongruity of the Paris police’s conjectures, of how farfetched some of the claims were regarding the hapless Champmathieu. He should have acted on his instinct. He had learned his lesson; he would never mistrust his intuition again.

But it no longer mattered. For some inexplicable reason, Madeleine had chosen to reveal his real identity and now Jean Valjean was apprehended. He sent a final sneer toward Valjean’s back before reaching through the bars and tugging the convict’s hands forcefully toward him. A turn of his key and the cuffs clicked open, revealing the white scars on Valjean’s wrists. Javert imagined thicker, heavier irons clasping those wrists in just a few days’ time. Convicts bound to chains. It was as natural as summer would surely follow spring. The world had regained its proper order at last.

“Inspector.” Jean Valjean’s voice brought him back to their present surrounding.

Javert returned his cuffs into his pocket without sparing the convict a glance. Valjean could plead all he wanted. Not a word would penetrate his heart of stone.

“Javert, please.”

“Quiet, convict!”

And just like that, Valjean had tricked him into looking up, into acknowledging him.

Valjean was facing him now. The dim moonlight cast a shadow over his face, so that all Javert could see were eyes glinting with a strange emotion, dark orbs set inside a dark form. The irony was not lost on him: it was in this most hidden state that Jean Valjean was fully known. In his three years of working with an imposter saint who seemed to emanate light from his very core, Javert wasn’t able to peel back even a layer of Madeleine’s pretense. Maybe he was wrong. Valjean wasn’t a serpent whose skin needed to be ripped from the creature. He was more like the troll of legends—impenetrable stone under sunlight, but enshroud him in darkness, and the blackest fiend would emerge.

The dark form was pleading, like the troll king still trying to lure innocent children to stray from the forest’s path into the bowels of hell despite the threat of the dawning day.

“Do one thing for me, please. Even you can’t deny that I have done right by you at least once over the years.”

A terrible shriek pierced through the chilled air, the sound of incredulity. The shriek was his. It reminded him of the cawing of the crow, completely mirthless and no less grating.

He did not miss the hardening of Valjean’s eyes.

Javert snarled—a primal, guttural sound. If hell had its hound, then justice ought to demand a wolf that was no less ferocious. The wolf spat, “Says a hypocrite pretending to be an angel of light. No, Valjean, you hold no favor over me. Enough. I have nothing to do with you any longer.”

He turned on his heels. The moonlight had fallen on the jailhouse door. It led back to the station house. _This way to freedom_ , it whispered, not to the prisoner confined behind bars ( _abandon hope, all ye who enter here_ ) but to the jailer ( _come unto me, and I will give you rest_ ). About ten paces separated him from the door. _Click, click, click_. In the silence, Javert’s footfalls clipped like the heavy ticking of a clock. Regular, sure, and soon to reach a new threshold where Jean Valjean would be left forever behind him.

“If you do not consider my request, I will escape.”

He stilled his steps.

“You know I can.”

_…liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to them that are bound…_

He didn’t know how he’d turned around or how his hands had clenched into fists, and certainly not how his legs had moved on their own to once again thrust him into sudden closeness with Valjean. He only knew that, mere heartbeats later, his face was inches from the convict’s. Valjean regarded Javert levelly. In the darkness, those eyes were indistinguishable between Jean Valjean and Madeleine.

“I know you will not believe the words of a criminal. But my word you shall have. Do this one thing for me, and I won’t attempt to escape, here or in Toulon. In the name of God, I promise you this.” He paused. “Fantine left behind a daughter at the inn of Montfermeil.”

“That is of no concern of mine.”

“I have promised her to fetch Cosette and raise her as my own.”

The final deceptive act of M. Madeleine. Javert wasn’t moved. “Shall I call in the parish priest so you may confess your failure? Or are you no longer pious now that you don’t need to pretend?”

The growl reached Javert’s ears first, a deep-throated sound that he would never thought M. Madeleine capable of making, but one that was perfectly fitting for a beast like Valjean. The hands followed, gripping the iron bars to pull Valjean’s entire body forward, though all Javert could see were eyes that seemed to have darken a hue, thrust up against his face. In the closeness, Javert could see how those eyes were slightly narrowed, could see the quiet fury eating away at what self-control the former mayor still possessed.

In this face-off between the hell hound and the heavenly wolf, the wolf took a step back.

“Mock me all you want, but do _not_ mock my faith. I was bought for God, both Madeleine and Jean Valjean. If I weren’t, I would have resisted arrest and done unspeakable things to you. Do not pretend you don’t know I’m fully capable of it. You stand unharmed only by the mercy of God. Are we clear?”

Valjean was caged; Valjean posed no danger. Javert should not feel threatened.

Javert gulped. And nodded.

“Now, Cosette. Will you go fetch her? I only ask that you ensure she is safe. After that, you may make what arrangement you see fit as long as it guarantees her continued well being.” Valjean’s voice softened. “In exchange, I will consider my life forfeit in your hands. I will submit willingly to the law and endure my punishment. Just this one favor, Javert… please.”

Perhaps Valjean had played the mayor for too long and had forgotten that he was in no position to bargain. Convicts had nothing to offer.

“It wasn’t I who made a rash promise to the whore, convict.”

The surprise that flitted through Valjean’s countenance was satisfying, as was the pained expression that followed.

“So it is a no, then?”

Javert drew himself to his full height. “It is a no.”

The hardness that shuttered all other emotions in Valjean’s eyes was not nearly enough of a warning. A hand reached through the iron bars and grabbed him by the collar, jerking him forward. Before Javert had the opportunity to choke on his own breath, a fist flew at him and connected forcefully with his left cheekbone. Pain blared. _I should have lied_ was Javert’s last thought before his world turned black.

When he regained consciousness hours later, the iron bars to the cell’s window had been bent and wrenched apart, and Jean Valjean was gone. He struggled to stand, but the slightest movement set every nerve on his head and neck aflame, confining him to a half-sitting, half-slouching position. It didn’t matter. Valjean was most likely long gone. What could more time wasted on composing himself do at this point?

After several minutes, Javert lifted a hand as if in experiment to his neck, his face, his head. There was soreness around where his cravat had chafed just beneath his jaw and a burst of pain where Valjean’s fist had sent him unconscious, but there was none of the expected wetness of blood. In fact, his left cheek aside, Valjean may not have left any other mark on him.

 _Mercy of God_ , his conscience pronounced through the ringing of his ears. His head felt too much like being hammered with nails for him to attempt a denial. Nor could he refuse what his lungs told him to be true: he was still breathing and, headache aside, uninjured. He was alive.

But Javert was not deluded. It was God who chose to grant him mercy; Jean Valjean was but a blackened tool that happened to have utilitarian value in the Maker’s hands, like God loosening the tongue of Balaam’s ass to deliver messages in human speech. Yes, it was exactly that, acts of divine intervention that employed beasts and brutes to convey approval to those whom the Lord deemed faithful. This approval seemed to smile upon Javert, promising the eventual tightening of the noose around Jean Valjean’s neck. Javert strengthened his resolve. His hands would be the first upon that noose.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Javert stood. Valjean would not escape justice. And Javert knew precisely what he must do to remain true to his merciless Master.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I will update regularly.


	2. Resignation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javert's life will never be the same again.

**_Fall, 1823_ **

The journey was long and unnecessary, a weeklong absence from his post in addition to the three days he had already spent fetching that wretched child. Correction: his excursion to Montfermeil could be counted as official duty. _Two criminals apprehended, one Thénardier and one Thénardiess, on suspicion of fraud and possible ties to the Paris criminal network_. _Two_ _larks sent to the girls’ home_. He’d had no qualms handing the girls over; they were better off orphaned than to have been raised into crime.

The third girl, his reason for going to Montfermeil, was safely under the care of Sister Simplice while he was away. Javert hadn’t intended on taking her in. But the child—Cosette—was a skeleton wrapped in skin and tattered rags and it would be wrong to send her to the orphanage. Besides, he wasn’t sure if he _could_ pry the creature off from clinging so tightly to his body. The child had marked him as her savior ( _Papa_ , Cosette’s voice rang in his ears), and like a chicken who received a name could no longer be slaughtered and eaten, Javert found himself returning home with the girl, having been branded and claimed as Cosette’s guardian.

He didn’t mind, really, if he was honest with himself. She had been surprisingly delightful. Obedient and quiet, like a mouse who knew when to be out of the way. She was like sunlight bursting into Javert’s gloomy existence, igniting the heart he didn’t know he had.

He’d known emotions to damn people to do senseless things, and as he journeyed south, switching Gymont for another horse at a police station house three towns away, Javert was getting very close to admitting that he had gone soft. He kept telling himself that he was making the trip to close a case, to forever shut the door in the face of a convict he would have no further dealings with after this meeting. But he knew he was doing this also because he could no longer ponder the possibility of losing Cosette.

Cosette had claimed him, and now he was claiming her in return.

-

“Mayor, you have a visitor!” an adjutant guard sneered as he swung open the door to a secure room, making way to herd in the prisoner Javert had come to see.

He didn’t have to wait long. He was sitting in a chair that faced the door. A table separated him from the other chair, where the convict would presumably be deposited. He had demanded absolute privacy.

_But Monsieur l’Inspecteur, wouldn’t it be safer if we… Quiet! One hand on the door handle and one ear to the door, and I will see to it that you end up sharing the lot of the convicts. Yes, yes, Monsieur, we understand. We’ll chain him tightly. Fire your pistol if he attacks, and the guards at the door will come to your aid._

Jean Valjean—24601, or whatever number they had reassigned him—entered the room wordlessly. He stood waiting with lowered eyes until Javert nodded at the chair. “Sit,” he ordered.

Valjean sat.

Their eyes met then, Javert’s schooled to impassivity and Valjean’s distant and unreadable. Three months of hard labor had darkened Valjean’s skin and deepened the lines on his face. Javert tried not to see Madeleine in that face and only managed to half-succeed. His memory of Valjean the convict was of a brute filled with hatred. Here, the man was too composed, and Javert felt the sudden urge to disquiet him.

“Mayor?” he sneered.

Valjean shrugged. The chains around his body rattled.

“It started with one of the guards,” he said. “It was meant to be an insult and it caught on. I assure you, Monsieur l’Inspecteur, there is nothing flattering about constantly being reminded of a past I can no longer have.”

“A just punishment for an imposter, _Monsieur le Maire_.”

Valjean tensed.

“Have you nothing to say to defend yourself? I seem to recall an unrepentant criminal resisting arrest by assaulting an officer and breaking out of jail.”

Javert got the distinct feeling that Valjean’s eyes swept across his left cheek. He fisted his hands by his sides. No, he would not lift a finger to test the fading bruise there.

“You left me with no choice,” Valjean said, as if stating the obvious to the slow of understanding. “I made a promise and I intend to keep it. I’m sentenced to life. What can they do to me if I’m caught escaping? Add three more years? Beat me? Believe me, Inspector—I _will_ get out of here.”

There was an air of indefeasibility to Valjean, like a pauper declaring himself king with a paper crown, the fancy of a lunatic. Javert scoffed. Valjean believed himself to be strong. Very well. Let him carry the stone of Sisyphus to the edge of freedom. Let him then watch himself being hurled back into the bowels of the bagne. Four escape attempts in nineteen years. All had failed. The chains of Toulon ran deep.

“Are you here to gloat? Well here I am, Jean Valjean, bound to the galleys again. How long have you dreamed of this moment?” The convict hawked something uncouth from his throat and spat. A thick and gray glob splattered a violent death onto the ground. His eyes did not leave Javert’s. “Well?"

Javert sneered, “You truly think yourself worthy enough for me to come here to gloat?”

Valjean smiled. There was none of the gentleness of Madeleine in it. A gleam of predatory interest. “I thought not. You are here for something else. Go ahead, I’m listening.”

And with this, Valjean had assumed the lead of their conversation, the mayor granting his inspector permission to start delivering his report.

Javert stubbornly stayed silent for as long as he could, crossing his arms and glaring at Valjean. In this den of iniquities, Valjean must seem like a Pharisee among a sea of sinners—the learned mayor who martyred himself at the Champmathieu trial; the willing convict who even now was plotting escape. Oh, he could fool this young batch of guards into believing he was on his best behavior—Valjean had never shirked his duties in hard labor even when he was 24601—but Javert knew the convict’s duplicitous heart.

“You are a dangerous man.”

Valjean neither agreed nor disagreed.

“I will do all I can to ensure a danger like you will never freely walk among innocent citizens again.”

The convict’s mouth was pressed into a thin line.

“You gave me your word that night, at Montreuil’s town jail. Then you turned around and broke your own trust –” Javert hissed. “And yet you dare speak of God? Tell me, do you not possess even a wretch’s honor among thieves?”

He stressed _thieves_ in a louder tone and noted that the edges around the pressed lips had turned white.

He was playing with fire. Valjean was a bed of smoldering ember whose hidden flame would leap to consume him at the smallest spark. He had already provided sufficient spark. Oddly, it was the convict who was trying to contain his own fire.

When Valjean eventually spoke, his words were slow and stilted, as if he needed to draw on every last bit of his strength to force calm over himself. “I broke no promises, not that night. You did not accept my offer.”

“And if I have?”

Valjean did not hesitate. “Then as I said, I would consider my life forfeit, forever condemned to the bagne.”

“No escape attempts?”

There was a pause.

“No. Not if –”

“I have Cosette.”

Eyes flashed up at him.

“A week ago, I fetched her from the innkeepers at Montfermeil. She is with me, temporarily under Sister Simplice’s care until I return to Montreuil-sur-Mer.”

In the silence the followed, the only sound was the rattling of Valjean’s chains.

“You speak the truth?” came the question—the accusation—after a long moment. Valjean’s voice was equally as tremulous as his body, as white as his face had become.

“Yes.”

Valjean looked as if he were deciding between taking Javert at his words or snarling at him. He didn’t give him the chance to choose.

“I have the child and you remain here for life. Are we agreed?”

He never liked being the object of M. Madeleine’s gaze, the sort that seemed to reach straight into the soul. Even coming from a convict, the gaze still managed to penetrate all of his defenses. But Javert wasn’t hiding anything and there was nothing to fear. Resolutely, he met Valjean’s eyes, inviting him to stare all he wanted.

“What is her name?” Valjean asked softly.

“Cosette. Her given name is Euphrasie, but since her father abandoned the family, that name was never used again,” Javert paraphrased. The actual conversation went thus: _Will you call me Euphrasie, Papa? My other Papa called me Euphrasie. But I like being Cosette_.

“What color are her eyes? Her hair?”

“Blue. And she is a brunette, though I’d imagine her hair may have been more blond when she was a newborn.”

“How old is she?”

“Eight.”

“What is her favorite color?”

Javert almost snorted. Anyone willing to spend five minutes in Cosette’s presence would know the answer.

“Yellow.”

“That’s not –”

“Children’s color preferences change as often as they change their favorite toy, you fool. Fantine left a three-year-old toddler with the Thénardiers. That three-year-old is now a precocious girl. Cosette’s favorite color may have been black five years ago for all I care. But at present, it is yellow.”

Valjean looked thoughtful for a moment and Javert wondered what other trivial details Fantine had entrusted to M. Madeleine on her deathbed. They could spend the next hour dissecting Cosette’s every physical trait and personal interest—each answer would weigh the evidence toward Javert’s favor. But even a thousand answers would not convince the willfully blind.

“Look, I have Cosette under my care. You have never known me to be a liar and I do not plan to turn into one. I am not here to convince you. I’m here to claim our bargain. I have performed my part of the duty. Now you must uphold yours.”

Valjean regarded him some more. In those eyes, Javert thought he glimpsed something of M. Madeleine, that other side of Valjean with his own code of honor that compelled him to make self-sacrificial decisions like crawling underneath a cart sinking in mud to save the life of an old man.

Merde, he _had_ gone soft.

He watched as Valjean came to a decision.

With an air of defeat in his voice, Valjean replied, “I believe you. Thank you for taking Cosette in. You have fulfilled my vow to Fantine on my behalf. And I –” His voice hitched. “I give you my word. I will remain here, willingly, for as many years as God will have me suffer here on earth.”

They neither shook hands nor signed names on a contract. There was no need; the bargain was struck.

Pushing himself upright from his chair, Javert stood and uttered a clipped, “Then we are done here, convict,” and hoped to leave Jean Valjean forever behind him.

It wasn’t until he was halfway between Toulon and Montreuil-sur-Mer did he realize that he had accepted Valjean at his word without even a shred of doubt.

-

**_Spring, 1824_ **

Javert was glad that he had had the foresight to make arrangements for two upon his arrival in Paris. While his quarters were temporarily sufficient for two (Cosette had the bed, he the couch), his decision to withdraw enough funds to feed, clothe, and groom Cosette turned out to be a necessity. He had to admit his ignorance in matters of parenthood—it was more difficult than he had expected to find schooling for the girl in a metropolis that favored hiring private tutors for the rich.

“I understand, but given my profession, it would be impossible for me to pick up Cosette in the afternoon every day –”

“Then she must board with us. Thirty francs a month.”

Thirty francs! He had no more than twenty to spare even with his increased salary.

“Perhaps I can fetch Cosette each evening and pay a lower fee?”

The nun crossed her arms. The incongruity between the gesture and God’s supposed meek servant wasn’t lost on Javert.

“Fetch her in the afternoon or put her up to board at the convent. Make your choice, Monsieur.”

Compared to this nun at the Petit-Picpus convent, Sister Simplice was a saint personified.

Javert crossed his arms in return. “Careful, Sister. Or I may believe you to be attempting extortion.”

“We do the work of God. A person’s soul is priceless.”

He couldn’t find fault with that statement.

And thus Javert found himself in the uncomfortable situation of having his unyielding respect for those in positions of spiritual authority challenged against his impulse to demand a third option. He looked down at Cosette and saw her wide, beseeching eyes.

He let out a silent sigh. The foolish child. He wasn't going to send her back to the Thénardiers; it was an offhanded threat uttered without the slightest sincerity when he was frustrated with her initial refusal to pack her bags. But Cosette was a child and didn’t possess the understanding to distinguish empty threats from truth. _Especially not since you are so eager to lecture her daily on the importance of honesty_ , his inner voice mocked. As an inspector, Javert was nigh irreproachable. As a parent, he was no better than others, helpless and resorting to deception. _Lord have mercy._

There were tears in Cosette’s eyes now, and an expression that was nothing short of desperation.

He wondered, briefly, if this was what a certain bread thief had once seen in the eyes of a different child, no less needy, and certainly no less compelling. He suddenly understood: the silent beseeching of children could turn a man into a criminal.

He must be better than the convict. He took Cosette’s hand roughly. “Come, let us go.”

Her tiny steps faltered, the reluctant stride of a child too scared to disobey. _Please don’t send me back_ , each stumble and tripping over of stray rocks screamed. When she could no longer contain her tears and first one drop, then two, turned into the flow of a veritable fount, Javert realized that he had long since past the point of resistance and was willing to sully his very soul for the girl.

“Cease crying. I will get you into the school. I promise.”

He wondered if Valjean had ever made a similar promise to his nephew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand the AU is officially set in motion! Having Cosette will profoundly change Javert in many ways while leaving him canon-like in other ways. I will do my best to portray him convincingly given this context. As always, thanks for reading!


	3. Resentment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valjean has something that Javert needs.

**_Summer, 1824_ **

After reporting to the Prefecture to acquaint himself with his new responsibilities, Javert delayed starting his post for two weeks, citing family reasons. The pay, he was willing to go without. He was only too grateful that neither his patron nor the Prefect questioned his sudden acquisition of a daughter without having known him to have had a wife.

-

“Monsieur l’Inspecteur.” Jean Valjean bowed his head as he entered the familiar room where Javert had last seen him. Like the previous time, he waited until Javert gave him permission to sit.

Valjean’s steps were sure and his shoulders broad, but Javert thought he looked many years older. It hadn’t yet been a full year. Surely the previous winter was harsher in Montreuil-sur-Mer than in Toulon? But it was as if all traces of M. Madeleine had vanished, and left behind in its wake was a shadow version of the erstwhile gentleman, no longer the hate-filled brute once known as 24601 but not quite the saint that Madeleine seemed to have become, for all that Javert believed it was more lie than truth.

But today, after spending some time with one of his former colleagues, Javert could no longer deny that there was at least some truth to Saint Madeleine.

He snorted. “The guards told me of your histrionics.”

It took a moment for Valjean to realize he was referring to the Orion ship rescue.

“You fell into the water,” Javert pointed out. “You could have escaped.”

The shadow that passed through Valjean’s face told him that he had thought about it.

“You would have succeeded.”

Presumed death, no cannon signal, and dark, turbulent waters. If ever there was a perfect collusion of circumstances to usher Valjean toward freedom, that cold November day was it. The convict from a year ago would have seized the opportunity as a gift from heaven. What had changed?

“I couldn’t. Not for Cosette.”

Ah. Did Valjean think he would cast Cosette out into the streets if he had failed to uphold his end of the bargain?

Valjean’s eyes were flashing with something like obstinacy, and he recognized it at once for what it was: the protectiveness of someone who felt responsible over the weak, promising dire consequences for those who dared harm the unfortunate and the poor, the little ones. If he’d thought Saint Madeleine was the embodiment of kindness and charity, then he was wrong. As protector of the weak, Valjean’s true self was nothing if not fierce.

He really did think Javert would discard Cosette like a used rag.

 _Of course he would_. To Valjean, Cosette was but a pawn used to trap him in the galleys, nothing more. And a year ago, it would have been true.

But now…

_If you’d only know what Cosette has come to mean to me._

Valjean mistook his silence as agreement. “Inspector, you may think the worst of me, and in many things you are correct. But not this. For Cosette, I consider my life here forfeit.”

“Your life here is forfeit because of your crimes,” Javert did not hesitate to point out.

“So you have said, Inspector. But since returning to Toulon, I have done right by everything. By God, by the law, by the guards, by Cosette, and even by you.

“Could I have escaped? Yes! Can I be less diligent in my work and produce sub-quality parts for ships, not caring whether they will sink or float? Of course I can! But I _chose_ to stay. And I choose to honor God with my work each day, even if I labor as a slave. I don’t participate in the sordid activities of the other convicts; no, I protect the weaker ones. In every way, I have sought to remain blameless. What reward do I receive for the good that I do? Certainly not like the ready consequences for my misdeeds. Tell me, Javert, is this just?”

 _It’s not fair!_ Cosette’s voice filled his head, the petulance of a child who couldn’t have things her way. _Life isn’t fair,_ Javert would always respond. And without fail, Cosette would receive her treat or toy or the privilege to stay awake for an extra half hour in the end.

Here, convicts received lashes and were tied to chains. Prison was never just, he’d learned that long ago.

“I’ve been transferred to Paris,” he said, ignoring Valjean’s question.

Valjean blinked. His indignation receded by several degrees. “You came all the way here to tell me this?”

Javert shook his head. “No, not this. There is… the matter of Cosette. I need to settle her elsewhere.”

“What do you mean –”

“I am being promoted to Inspector, First Class. In Paris. A pithole of crimes. I will not have time to look after her –”

“So you’re _discarding_ her?”

“I did not say that!”

“You – you lie – you promised!”

The walls of the room amplified every shouted word. Javert belatedly realized that they were now both standing, with hands planted on the table, glaring at each other and bodies primed like tigers ready to devour its meal.

_Papa, where’s my doll? You said you would put Catherine into my suitcase, you promised! No, I don’t want to wait for the other trunks to arrive! You said you would put her in HERE!_

“You did not let me finish. I was going to say, I plan to enroll her into a convent school.”

“Are you asking for permission?” Valjean’s voice was as cold as the glint of his eyes.

“I don’t need permission from you, convict. And do not accuse me of wrongdoing. I take care of Cosette, and you –”

“I’m still here, am I not?”

That much he had to admit was true. Valjean had passed up on the perfect opportunity to escape.

Sighing, he waved a hand between them. “Sit. We’ve both gotten worked up.”

Valjean’s eyes remained on him as they sat. “You need something from me,” M. Madeleine—the magistrate, politician, negotiator of business transactions—observed. It wasn’t a question.

 _I will get you into the school, I promise._ Even if it meant begging from a criminal.

Taking a breath to steady himself, Javert began, “I am led to understand that M. Madeleine left behind a sum of money with the parish priest to continue operating the town school, hospital, and orphanage.” He paused, allowing his unspoken request to sink in. “Educating Cosette will require funds.”

“You expect me to see the school fail –”

“There is no more school, Valjean.”

He forced himself not to look away from the pain in those eyes.

He continued, “In the months after you were arrested, Montreuil-sur-Mer reverted to poverty. The school and hospital limped along for several weeks before their doors were finally shuttered. The orphanage remained, but it was so filled with homeless children that it became no more than an unattended hall to house gamins. At least they were able to pass the winter under shelter.

“I believe, during your tenure as mayor, you had acquired sufficient funds to keep the town operating for many more months, perhaps years. But without a leader to hold the town together, things fell apart.”

Footsteps rumbled outside. Javert recognized it as the changing of the guards. The sound of boots clipping against the stone path was pleasant; it spoke of discipline. Without it, the bagne would descend into chaos.

“So all my efforts, they were for nothing,” Valjean whispered after a long while.

Javert didn’t have an answer to that.

_Papa, why are we leaving Montreuil-sur-Mer?_

_Because I have been assigned to a new post in Paris._

_But don’t you like it here anymore?_

_It has nothing to do with my preference. I am asked to transfer and I will comply. You also must be obedient._

_But what’s going to happen with the other little girls?_

_You come with me. They will survive._

_Marie says she’s waiting for the good mayor to return. Can’t we wait for him too?_

_There is no good mayor. He will not return._

_But Marie says the mayor gave her maman a job! Isn’t that good?_

_Having a job is good. The mayor was a bad man._

_So a bad mayor can do good things?_

_No. Bad people do not do good things._

_So Marie is right! He was a good mayor!_

_Cosette, stop this at once. There was never a good mayor and all the good things Marie thinks he did were pretense._

_Why do you hate the mayor so much?_

_Papa?_

_Papa? Did I say something wrong? I’m sorry Papa! Please don’t send me back to the Thénardiers!_

_I’m not sending you back. Just go to sleep._

_Papa?_

_What now…_

_Was the bad mayor good?_

_Go to sleep._

_Was he, Papa?_

_Yes, yes, now go sleep._

_So he is both!_

The image of the overcrowded orphanage flitted through his mind. Javert had left Montreuil-sur-Mer immediately after his transfer. Without the criminal mayor who did good things, the town had become overrun with chaos.

And now he needed the bad man to do one more good deed.

“Please,” Javert said, the unfamiliar word felt stilted on his tongue. “I know you have the funds. It will all be for Cosette.”

Valjean raised an eyebrow. _Really?_ “When I was here the first time, I seem to remember a certain guard sneering at us prisoners, telling us we shouldn’t have broken the law if we weren’t prepared to pay the consequences.”

“I don’t see how this is relevant.”

“Is it not the same for you, Javert? You took on a promise. You should be prepared to bear its implications. God knows I’m doing my part.”

“I took on a promise that _you_ have made.”

“And I would have fulfilled it by now.”

“So it’s _my_ fault now for taking in Cosette? Do I need to remind you that this was originally your request?”

“That was because I wasn’t sure I’d be able to leave this place!”

_I could have escaped. I could be Cosette’s father right now. I could have spat in the face of our agreement._

The guards knocked on the door. “It’s alright,” Javert shouted. He glared at Valjean.

Valjean gave him a pointed look. “You know what I said is true.”

Valjean had kept his word. Every painful syllable of it. It was one thing to refuse corruption and bribery as a magistrate who had everything. But this. Javert couldn’t think of anything Valjean wanted more than his freedom. And he’d given it up on the basis of a promise.

_Because he thinks you don’t care. He believes you would throw Cosette away if he doesn’t stay here._

He swiped a hand over his brow. He pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed Valjean to agree, for Cosette’s sake, at all cost. “State your terms, Valjean.”

“My terms?” Valjean repeated, and Javert looked up into a face with a curious expression, like that of a collector appraising the value of an unknown object, trying to determine the sincerity of the seller. The expression then turned bitter. “I want us to be equals, in all matters pertaining to Cosette. I want you to stop hurling insults at me. I want to be human in this place that treats me like a beast. I want my freedom, I want Cosette. I want all this and more. What say you, Inspector? Here are my terms. Are you going to grant me everything I want?”

No, he would not.

_Papa, don’t send me back! I promise I’ll be good!_

Beggars didn’t offer terms, he realized. Inside this room, the rich man wore chains and what power he believed he held over Valjean was a façade. He could call in the guards and see to it that Valjean was punished for real or imagined offenses. But that wouldn’t help Cosette one whit. And here, on Cosette’s behalf, he was the supplicant.

“Valjean… please.”

Valjean seemed to relish Javert’s discomfort, stretching out the silence to make the plea feel as if it had been cast into the depths of the Toulon sea, never to be found again. If those arms were unchained, Javert was sure they’d be crossed at the chest, with body leaning back against the chair and eyes peering down the length of his nose at him.

He gritted his teeth. At least Valjean hadn’t yet said no.

Valjean sucked in a lungful of air. In the suspended seconds, Javert waited for the words that would determine Cosette’s fate.

“You want the funds that I gave to the priest?”

“Yes.”

“It will not be enough.”

“It will last as long as I can make it. I have been saving up. Once Cosette is settled in the convent school, I will board at a cheaper place. I promise you, she will never lack for anything.”

“Never? But you don’t even have enough to send her to school.”

“Believe me, I will find a way. If you would provide the initial funds, I will make it work.”

“And if you don’t?”

 _What will happen to Cosette?_ Javert heard, saw the disbelief in Valjean’s eyes. He could draw on no defense from their shared past to take away this doubt. Both the convict and Madeleine had known him to be merciless, the townspeople’s whispered speculation of his lack of a heart more fact than fiction. Sometimes he wondered if even Cosette had come to the same conclusion. He was doing so many things he knew nothing about—caring for a child, seeking help from an enemy, ripping his own pride into tatters… He turned away from those too-penetrating eyes and looked at a spot on the table. He was asking for faith and trust, both of which the mayor had had in abundance. Was there still a generous heart inside Valjean—different persona but the same body, perhaps even the same person—that Javert could appeal to? Did he, the hunter and the jailer, even deserve consideration?

He must try.

“I can’t promise you anything,” he said to the table. “Only this: I will not abandon Cosette. Even if it means I have to teach her what little I know, I will see to it that she will never end up in the streets.”

“And if you fail?” Valjean’s voice was soft. It was the most dangerous tone he had ever heard coming from that mouth.

“I don’t know.” He was frustrated, not at Valjean’s refusal—he was demonstrating good sense for once—but at the very real possibility that the convict was right. _Javert_ and _children_ never mixed. He wasn’t like M. Madeleine, always surrounded by the little ones. There was an easy air to how Madeleine related to children. He, on the other hand, barked stiff and harsh commands. The sight of Inspector Javert could disperse crowds. It was a wonder he hadn’t irrevocably damaged Cosette already. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I will fail,” he snapped, “and the result will be the ruined life of a girl who deserves much more. Maybe this will happen no matter how hard I try. I don’t know, Valjean, I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.”

He resumed staring at the table, counting uncomfortable seconds slipping by. The silence was almost unbearable, but it was better than refusal—he knew it was a matter of time before the pronouncement would be made. Suspended time still offered hope, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say to persuade Valjean. What more would another _please_ do?

He felt Valjean’s gaze like a weight on the back of his neck. The hair there stood on their ends in response. If he raised his head now, which face would he be looking into—the convict’s or the saint’s?

“Look at me.” It was a command.

Javert fixed his eyes on the far wall behind Valjean’s left shoulder.

From his peripheral vision, he could see emotions warring on Valjean’s face. He couldn’t identify them all.

Then, Valjean leaned forward on his side of the table, and Javert found himself face-to-face with raw determination.

“Very well. This is my term: You must never tell Cosette about this.”

“About what?”

Valjean ignored him. Or perhaps he was already lost in his memories, his face no less resolute but his mind seemed to have been swept into a faraway place. He continued as if recounting a fairytale in a children’s book. Start from the beginning. _Once upon a time_. The princess was cursed. Javert the Stepfather could not rescue her. Help was needed from a kindhearted commoner. Help would be found. “There is this place several hours’ walk from Montreuil-sur-Mer…”

For the next half an hour, Javert listened as Valjean described the exact location of where he had fled to the night after escaping from the town jail, first to withdraw his entire deposit from M. Lafitte’s, then to bury it deep inside the woods. Having neither pen nor paper, Valjean made him repeat every detail until he had committed it to memory.

“They were meant for Cosette anyway,” Valjean concluded, “except I had intended to look after her. Since you’re her guardian now, there is no reason for me to still lay a claim to the money.” He met Javert’s eyes. “This is honest money, Inspector, every _sou_ of it. My entire fortune is now yours.”

The meaning was not lost on Javert. Valjean had just divulged the location of his one remaining means to rebuilding his life. Like a sailor deliberately putting out his signal flame and consigning himself to be forever lost at sea, Jean Valjean had cut off the last thread tethering him to the promise of freedom. It was done. He would never set foot outside of the bagne again.

 _Thank you_ , Javert wanted to say, but something in him refused to express gratitude to a convict.

So he pointed downward instead. “The sore on your ankle. How long has it been there?”

Valjean grimaced. “Weeks. It’s healing, though not properly.”

“You are no longer young. Go to the infirmary.”

“And you think any of the guards will listen? They’ll just take more delight in my pain. Javert, when you were here… you were different.”

“It’s merely a matter of productivity. You are here to render labor. If you are injured, you will not be able to work your full load. I will tell the head guard to take you to be examined.”

Valjean searched his face. He allowed himself to be scrutinized. It didn’t make him feel exposed. Strange. It wasn’t too dissimilar to when Cosette would look up at him with a smile on her face, and all he would feel was something pleasant.

“Thank you.”

Javert shook his head. “You confound me, Jean Valjean. You are a thief and a fraud. And yet you have this compulsion to play martyr and philanthropist. Madeleine. Mayor. 24601.”

Valjean laughed. The sound was hollow, and Javert wondered what Valjean was truly feeling inside. “You’re the only one who remembers that number. I’m 9430 now.”

The corners of his lips twitched upward. “I don’t suppose I will ever forget,” he said. “Think what you may, but I hold nothing against you, not anymore. You are a criminal and you belong in prison. I only ever hunted you down to see justice done. You’ve convinced me that you will not escape. There is no further crime to hold you accountable for.”

“Hmm.”

He supposed he could stand and leave, go back to Paris and to Cosette to resume their new life in a new city. But Valjean seemed deep in thoughts and he didn’t want to rob him of this rare moment of peace, to disturb this… not-enemy? Reconciled convict? What was Jean Valjean to him now?

_So the mayor is a good man, Papa?_

“What is your favorite color, Inspector?”

The question took him by surprise. “Blue,” he blurted out. “And you?”

“Green. The green of grass and trees and plants in gardens.” He sighed. “I will never see that kind of green again.”

“Valjean –”

“You know it’s true. And you don’t have to hide it from me. I’ve become angry and bitter. I’m beginning to despair of my loss, in spite of having done everything right. No, not everything. I am a sinner before God, we all are. But despite trying…”

Valjean smiled. It was one of those brittle smiles. All Javert could think of was the extinguishing of a candle, of hope being snuffed out.

“The light of God has been smothered inside me. I’m wasting away. Tell me, Javert, what use is it for me to do good, if I am destined to die in Toulon? There is no end to my prison term, no future. I have even given up on escaping.

“What is it that the Scripture says? God will not suffer me to be tempted above what I am able? But I’m being crushed by the very hand of God. He no longer wants me. I’m forgotten. What’s preventing me from taking back my soul and yield to all manner of temptations? But I can’t even be sure that would be willful sin, can I? They won’t give me anything to read, won’t let me learn from the monks. They already know I am literate. There is no mercy here, no light, no God. Is this what I deserve, Javert? Does the law prescribe ripping away a person’s dignity, his very faith?”

“Valjean –” he began, but could go no further.

What was he supposed to say? What _could_ he say?

_Papa, make it go away. I don’t ever want to have bad dreams again._

“Cosette… her favorite color is purple now.”

He thought he saw interest returning to Valjean’s eyes. A spark of familiarity, a hint of M. Madeleine, the sinner-saint.

“Is it now? Does she also have a favorite book?”

“I’m afraid her choices are limited. It’s either the Bible or the Code.”

“You have her reading the _Code Napoléon_?”

“I caught the Sisters giving her something inane to read once and demanded she be taught more serious subjects.”

“Javert, you didn’t!”

They spent the rest of the hour talking about Cosette. Javert ignored several door knockings by the guards. Whenever Cosette woke from a nightmare, he would stay by her bedside until she would fall asleep again (rationalizing the impossibility of her dreams and the reading of the _Code Nepoléon_ were equally sleep-inducing). Similarly, he refused to leave Valjean in this hell until the bitterness that had taken a hold of his heart could be reduced, by however small a measure, with his presence here.

He didn’t know why he cared. But he did.

-

_Papa, the nuns are teaching me about sacrifices._

_Oh? And what about them?_

_Substitutionary atonement is a principle of salvation._

_Hmm… you are learning very big words._

_It's not so hard, really. It means a good person decides to save the lives of people who cannot save themselves._

_That's very noble._

_You wouldn't understand, Papa. You only deal with bad people. You're the police._

_I suppose you're right. Good people are rare._

_That's what the nuns say. They say only Christ is the perfect substitute. Because nobody in the world is able to sacrifice their lives to rescue others._

_And because the nuns said it, it must be correct._

_You don't really mean that. You always sound like this when you disagree with what I’m learning._

_Believe it or not, I actually agree with the nuns this time._

_Oh, I’ll tell Sister Baptista tomorrow! She’ll be thrilled!_

_I’m sure she will._

_Papa, you’re funny when you roll your eyes._

_I did not –_

_Yes you did!_

_Papa?_

_Yes?_

_What about you? Don’t you get into dangerous situations to save others?_

_I get into dangerous situations to arrest criminals. There’s a big difference._

_What about the other police? Do they save people?_

_They try to. We all try._

_So you don’t know any hero who has saved the day?_

_I thought the nuns banned you girls from reading those inane romantic hero novels._

_Papa! Answer my question!_

_Well… I've only ever known one man who has the impulse to keep saving people._

_Oh! What did he do?_

_He saved people from a blazing fire, saved an old man from being crushed under a cart, and later saved a crew member of a ship from being cast into the sea._

_He sounds like a pirate. You made it up._

_I do not lie, Cosette. You ought to know this by now._

_Then where is he? Can I meet him?_

_He doesn’t live in Paris._

_Oh… can you take me to meet him?_

_No. He's a dangerous man._

_But he saved people. He must be good!_

_Humans are much more complicated than that. If someone does good things with bad intentions, then the good things he does are also bad._

_Papa, you're not making sense._

_I knew him once. He thinks he's doing good. But that is pride. Surely the nuns have taught you about pride?_

_“Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.” We learned that one months ago. But why does he have pride? There's nothing for him to gain if he fails in his rescues and dies. Unless he wants a statue of himself, but then he’d be too dead to know about it._

_Because he... hmm._

_See! He is good. Can't he be at least a little good?_

Could he? What did Valjean have to gain in Arras, at the Champmathieu trial? What bounded him to resurface after the Orion rescue? What thanks would he ever receive by being the benefactor of a child he would never meet, refused to even let Javert disclose of the sources of his sudden wealth?

_I suppose, Cosette. Maybe he is good. Just a little._

A little was already a lot more good than Javert himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My exploration of Valjean's fall into resentment was prompted from the Brick, Book II, Chapter IX, _Cloistered_ :  
> "God has his own ways, moreover; the convent contributed, like Cosette, to uphold and complete the Bishop's work in Jean Valjean. It is certain that virtue adjoins pride on one side. A bridge built by the devil exists there. Jean Valjean had been, unconsciously, perhaps, tolerably near that side and that bridge, when Providence cast his lot in the convent of the Petit-Picpus; so long as he had compared himself only to the Bishop, he had regarded himself as unworthy and had remained humble; but for some time past he had been comparing himself to men in general, and pride was beginning to spring up. Who knows? He might have ended by returning very gradually to hatred."
> 
> So what happens if Valjean doesn't end up with Cosette at the convent? At Toulon, I picture him wondering what's the point of being good. But I don't have the heart to throw him back into hatred. He's better than that, dammit! *huggles Valjean*
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Rejected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lengthy case brings Javert to Toulon. He pays Valjean a visit.

**_Fall, 1829_ **

To his colleagues, Javert would later pin his prolonged absence on a case. _The_ case. The adventures of the flaming _savant_. The man who played with fire. The escape-ades of the smoke illusionist. Each successive (and more ridiculous) title with which the rags of Paris christened the criminal, splashed in large and bold letters across their front pages, was a taunt to his profession, a brazen challenge to the capabilities of the police. It was only natural to give chase. Who _wouldn’t_ pursue such a criminal across the entire country? Apparently, the whole police force who didn’t have the name Javert. _Deduct from my pay if you must, justice is more than sitting my ass at the Palais du Justice_. He’d gotten too involved to hand the case off to another jurisdiction.

It took him one month, two weeks, and four days. The criminal was eventually apprehended in the town next to Toulon. It was immensely satisfying to clap the cold iron over his wrists.

If he had been anywhere else, Javert would have returned to Paris right away. But a glance at the sea and he knew he owed the benefactor of his adopted daughter a visit. It had been five years, after all.

-

Javert didn’t know what to expect. But it was anything but this.

The guards brought in a body seemingly devoid of everything that distinguished a man from an animal. The body shuffled in with its head bowed. He looked like Valjean—his skin was still tanned and his body sculpted with muscles—but there was not a mite of spirit in him that Javert could recognize as the man he once knew.

 _Papa, see this book here—_ Frankenstein, _translated from English! Oh, no, it’s not improper. The monster is really a good man. He was misunderstood. He wouldn’t have done horrible things if M. Frankenstein would make him a female monster. No, it doesn’t start out alive, Papa. Frankenstein assembled different body parts for his creature. He made it with yellow eyes and a body with no life or soul. Only lightning can spark life into the shell._

The shell was pushed into a chair and it sank obediently into a sitting position. Neither of the guards bothered to instruct Javert of what to do should he find himself in danger. There was no need.

“Can he still talk?” Javert couldn’t stop himself from asking.

“Oh he can, if you get him to care, that is,” one of the guards jeered. “He understands things well enough. Good at following orders, this one. Haul in the ship! Carry the mast! Take a double load! He’s done them all.”

“And yet you still keep him in extra chains.”

If the guard noticed the hardening of his voice, he didn’t care. “He’s strong, can’t risk the possibility of him acting out one day. Never trust the convicts. Surely you know this, Inspector?”

And so Valjean was treated like the hull of a ship, sturdy and well shaped on the outside but empty on the inside, tied to the dock and chained to the anchor when not needed for use.

“I know much more about this convict than you’d think,” he muttered. “Leave us. I have business to conduct with him.”

The guard shot him a dubious look but didn’t press the matter as he and his colleague exited the room, leaving Javert in contemplation of the creature before him.

_The monster was sewn together from different body parts._

This body was comprised of a tainted criminal past, impossibly monstrous strength, a kind heart, and a thoughtful, generous nature if given the opportunity to express himself.

“Convict, look up,” Javert goaded, hoping to elicit the fiery temper that he knew existed somewhere within Valjean.

The head raised, but it may well have been a command given to a trained horse.

Those dull eyes impaled something painful into Javert’s chest.

_I did this. I left him no choice but to reveal himself. I sent him here. I’m keeping him here._

As a guard, he’d seen countless convicts who had given up and went about their days like shadows, awaiting death. He’d believed them to be weak, eager to commit their crimes but too feeble to bear the consequences. To have broken the law and then become a burden to the penal system was, in young Javert’s opinion, the vilest offense a criminal could commit.

It had never occurred to him until now that he was wrong.

No, those were in fact the very convicts who refused to let hatred fuel their existence. But in a place without hope, the void left empty of hatred had nothing else to fill it with. And so these souls withered, their humanity shriveling away until nothing was left.

 _Lightning is needed to bring the monster to life._ He had no lightning, no spark that could jolt life back into Valjean. But he would try.

“I… have been busy,” he said, a poor excuse if there ever was one.

The answering curve of lips reminded him of one of those _I understand_ smiles that M. Madeleine used to plaster onto his face but that never quite reached his eyes. Functional. Diplomatic. Fake.

“I was working on a case that took me chasing an arsonist all across the country. Everywhere he went, he would set fire to two buildings, one ablaze with flames and the other smothered in smoke. The criminal would, of course, first rob both houses clean of all valuables. The difficulty was in predicting where he would go next, to send words ahead of him to adjacent Prefectures.”

He glanced at Valjean. No reaction.

“My colleagues thought to alert all the nearby towns to mandate nighttime patrol, but that would require more gendarmes and resources than we have. A commisaire suggested that we do nothing, to wait until the arsonist slips up and sets himself on fire. But this may never happen. And as all lawbreakers must be brought to justice, I opposed the suggestion.”

He looked pointedly at Valjean. The convict that he knew would be flashing angry eyes at him; the mayor in his memory, pleading for kindness and forgiveness on behalf of humanity. Here, Valjean stared back with unfocused eyes.

“So I decided to pursue the case alone. I went to all the towns’ taverns to speak with owners and patrons. Without fail, prior to each fire a nondescript visitor would order a meal and down a full bottle of champagne, as if in anticipation of a celebration. The meal itself did not constitute a grave mistake, but his wine selection did, for he only drank _cuvée de prestige_ , the finest blend from first-pressed grapes.

“I traced down the wine dealer and obtained a list of all locations that purchase this label from him. I was able to pare my list down to twenty-seven jurisdictions. The arsonist was heading south, so I cut my list further down to fourteen. From that, I made an educated guess and selected La Valette-du-Var. The arsonist chose Brignoles first, giving me time to travel ahead of him. When he arrived at the tavern at La Valette-du-Var, I arrested him.”

While he wasn’t expecting the cheers and hand-clapping that Cosette would send his way, he was hoping to have elicited a reaction, _any_ reaction, from Valjean.

He sighed. “Since I was near Toulon, I decided to come. So you see, I have been busy. And even now I question the wisdom of my decision, for I have been on the hunt after the arsonist for nearly seven weeks. Coming here will add to my time away. Cosette will be getting anxious.”

Valjean suddenly seemed to sit up straighter. Earnestness seeped into his face.

“Cosette. Is she well?”

Cosette! Yes, she would be the requisite burst of life for Valjean.

He nodded. “She will soon finish her schooling. She expresses interest in taking her vows.”

Something seemed to stir inside Valjean. “Does she know what it means?”

“She has spent almost six years in the convent school. I would think the meaning of entering a sacred vocation is quite clear to her.”

He had thought it to be the ideal arrangement, the surest safeguard to ensure Cosette would lead a virtuous life. He’d been pleased with her decision. The convict, it appeared, thought the opposite, judging by the frown directed his way.

“Has she experienced life outside of the convent?”

“I visit her daily at the school. She has gone home on the holidays with me.”

Those brows furrowed deeper. “She is but a girl. You would willingly let her closet herself away for life?”

“She has no status to speak of to attract suitors,” Javert countered. “What more can one expect from a whore’s daughter?”

“A – she’s your daughter too!”

“She’s my charge. Anyone who spares her even a passing glance would recognize whose daughter she is if they’d known –”

“Stop!” Valjean roared, a bellow that rumbled deep from the chest. The monster had awakened.

The guards rapped on the door. He ignored their concern.

Javert smiled, which to anyone would seem like a grimace. He preferred this anger, this show of life. It felt almost foolish that he had once demanded submission from the convict, when it was Jean Valjean, full of life, that was always just out of his reach.

_Papa, the nuns warned our class against covetousness. Sister Baptista says if we don’t learn contentment, we will never be satisfied with what we have._

_A rare pearl of wisdom among her drivel of many years._

_Are you content, Papa?_

_Of course I am. Why do you ask?_

_Because you’re always so dedicated to your work, always so devoted to the law. It’s almost as if… no, forgive me, it’s one of my silly girl’s fancies that you dislike._

_Speak your mind._

_Well, it’s like… it’s as if there’s an ultimate criminal out there that keeps on eluding you. You make all these other arrests, but your heart only desires to catch that one person just beyond your grasp._

He was within an arm’s length of his ultimate criminal. He would be damned if he allowed his convict to slip back into an empty existence. “You hold no sway over this matter. Both Cosette and I have decided,” he pressed, gambled. He hoped for disagreement, for the return of the convict who once resisted recapture with all his might.

For a long moment Valjean sat motionless, and Javert wondered if he’d lost the man back into the shell again. But indignation brewed a fury that passed like a dark cloud over Valjean’s countenance, and Javert was suddenly a man stranded with neither umbrella nor raincoat out on the streets, where angry claps of thunder were not nearly enough warning for the deluge that was to come.

Valjean’s eyes narrowed. There was life there. The sparks of lightning.

And then, the downpour.

“All these years, I labor away, believing that somewhere out there, you are giving Cosette the best life she can have. I harbor no disillusions. I will die here. I will never be able to lay claim on her. But it seems I’m disillusioned after all, where you are concerned.

“How can you allow her to be trapped in the convent forever? She may claim to have love for God. Believe me, I would be pleased beyond measure if this is so. But Cosette will not fully grasp her love for the divine if she cannot first taste other loves, for man and humanity and life. Has she experienced love’s joy and fullness, its disappointments and bitterness? Does she even know what love is?

“Do you know how many nights, in the beginning, when I lay on my plank wishing I would be the one to raise Cosette? I was ready to love her, to give her my all. She would have a dangerous life with an escaped convict, but at least she would be well provided for. In my dreams, she would be happy, glorious. An angel of light.”

“You imply that I do not care for her.” His words were chosen carefully, the strategic fuming of a cave to draw out the hiding bear into the open. But strategic or not, Javert felt his own anger rising.

“Do you? I see no attachment in your reference to her as your _charge_. Pawn in a battle, to keep Jean Valjean imprisoned! I am old now, I do not have the strength to attempt escape and then hope to survive the wild. If Cosette is such a burden to you, then break your promise, and I will still consider my life forfeit in your hands. Surely you haven’t used up all my funds? Endow what is left to her and you can be rid of a whore’s child forever. That is what you have always wanted, no? But allow her to choose her own life.”

“Don’t you dare speak of things you know nothing about!”

“Do I? How old is Cosette now, fourteen, fifteen? I have never met a girl her age in Montreuil who did not dream of a future filled with love and family. She chooses the church only because she doesn’t know there’s anything else.”

“So you believe I should allow her to wander about, to expose her to the unrest brewing in the streets of Paris, to taste the bitterness of violence and injustice? That is not my duty as a guardian.”

“Of course not,” Valjean spat. “You only ever concern yourself with duty! Her happiness means nothing to you. Tell me, Inspector: Cosette. Do you love her?”

“I…”

_Papa, I love you._

_I… thank you, Cosette._

He loved her more than he could express, more than everything that he had or would ever own. But the words… he could never speak them.

The laughter of Cosette rang in his ears. When he first took her in, the wretched child wouldn’t even dare meet his eyes; she was a tender shoot accustomed to bending and yielding. Against all odds, this shoot had grown through the cracks of a rock, a withered stalk that had since turned a vibrant green and flourished into a jewel that meant more to Javert than he was willing to admit.

Javert sat helpless, frozen. Dread crushed him like the sudden fall of Toulon’s merciless waves. Did Cosette know she meant more to him than a mere charge, if he had never told her?

Valjean was searching his face with eyes that were no longer dull. Javert recognized the eyes of M. Madeleine that only ever saw good in others. His expression was soft.

“You do love her, Javert. You can’t say it, but you may well have screamed your devotion to Cosette from the rooftop. I apologize. I shouldn’t have questioned you.” His voice turned pained. “She is yours. I trust you will decide what is best for her.”

What would Cosette become, locked away in a convent? Would he consign her to a different kind of prison? Valjean of all people understood the horrors of confinement, and he’d seemed horrified on Cosette’s behalf. Was she choosing a sacred vocation because she didn’t know of other options? If this was true, then keeping her from other choices would be unjust.

“You’re right,” he murmured. “Cosette will live with me. She should experience life outside of the convent before making any lifelong decisions.”

Perhaps Valjean was no longer accustomed to having his views acknowledged. Surprise flickered in his eyes then disappeared like the dousing of a flame. He resumed staring at a blank spot on the table. But the silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, and Javert paid close attention to his convict, careful not to lose the bear back into the cave.

“What do they have you do here?” he asked after a long pause.

Valjean shrugged. “Break rocks, use me as a human jack like your group of guards used to do. There is still strength left in me. Though I suspect not for long.”

A haunted expression had taken a hold of that face.

“I’ve been thinking lately, about what my final day here will be like. To succumb to illness would be a mercy. To die of physical injury when my body finally gives out would be the least shameful. But I know I won’t be spared humiliation. Their eyes are on me all the time, the guards, waiting for me to slip, to fall, to fail to lift impossibly heavy objects.

“It will happen one day. Soon, I suppose. My body will betray me. Then they’ll surround me, mock me, order me to do what they know I cannot. It will be my fault. They will want to punish me. But not in private, of course not. For Jean le Cric must be made into a spectacle! They’ll tie me up and leave me wondering how many lashes it will take before I lose consciousness, before I finally die. I will have the mercy of some final minutes. I am supposed to be thankful for that. The guards will make wagers among themselves. Five lashes each, or ten, it doesn’t matter. You won’t be there to stop the guards. Who will have the honor of delivering the final blow? If they all want to be the one, then the lashes will fall harder the closer I get to fainting. I wonder how they will be able to tell after I’ve fainted. Will they pause before rotating to the next guard, to check my pulse? Will they pour salt water over me to wake me up, to hear me scream? What do you think, Javert? You used to be a guard. Surely you’ve heard the others boasting.”

What did he think? Javert stared—gaped—horrified.

This was not justice. It was wrong. And—he knew—it was closer to reality than any king or emperor dictating the Code from the comfort of their chambers could imagine.

“By God, you shouldn’t be here,” he muttered.

“Shouldn’t I? Have you changed your mind, finally?”

“I… no, but…”

He thought he heard a sigh.

“Maybe I will break my promise after all. I’m better off trying.”

“Trying?”

“Trying to escape. I will fail.” He met Javert’s eyes. “But out there, when I’m being pursued, the guards have less time to think to be cruel. I’ll keep resisting arrest until one of the younger guards shoots his pistol on impulse or stabs me with his knife. And then it’ll be all over.”

“You can’t –” _You can’t give up, you can’t just die, you can’t let them win._ “– you can’t break your promise!”

Valjean looked toward the side wall as if a window had appeared to give him a view of freedom. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters! At Montreuil-sur-Mer, you were very nearly a saint. Saints don’t – they don’t… give up, on life.”

“I’ve already given up. It’s been years since I entertained any hope.” He looked back at Javert. “No, don’t be horrified. I’m not going to die on you. Unless… do you still carry your pistol with you at all times?”

“I won’t do it.”

“I thought not.” Something that sounded like a chuckle escaped the mirthless mouth. “I wasn’t going to ask.”

Yet Javert got the distinct feeling that if he were to pull out his pistol, Valjean would welcome it.

 _Is it that bad? Are the guards still so cruel? Do they not care that you are an obedient worker?_ – Questions clamored in his mind; none needed asking. Yes, yes, no, they do not care.

“What do you mean –” He suddenly remembered. “– that I would be able to stop the guards?”

“It’s not in your nature to be cruel. You have never abused your power, not once in all the years I’ve known you.”

“But I wouldn’t be able to stop a team of guards if this happened while I was here. Once the lot of them bands together, opposition is useless.”

“You would try.”

He would, wouldn’t he? It was unsettling to think that Valjean was perhaps the one person in the world who knew him best. No one else shared their history, their past.

Seeing Valjean wasting away felt like losing an old friend.

“And it’s not in your nature to abandon goodness.” Javert knew he spoke the truth. The man before him may be a criminal, but he was a good man. He could no longer deny it. “What about your faith in God, your piety? Surely it wasn’t all an act.”

Astonishment passed through that face, and Javert realized this was the first time he had sincerely acknowledged the virtues of the mayor as genuine parts of Jean Valjean.

“I don’t believe it to be an act,” he added. “I may have once, at Montreuil-sur-Mer. But no longer.”

This time, the smile, though small, reached Valjean’s eyes. “Thank you.”

Javert nodded.

“Are you a religious man, Monsieur l’Inspecteur?”

He had observed the Sunday mass with the same zeal as he had the _Code Napoléon_ , that is to say, religiously irreproachable.

“I suppose so.”

“It is a duty, then?”

“Yes.”

Valjean looked pleased. “Then you will understand what I am about to say:

“What I told you that night at the town jail is still true. My soul was bought for God. This will never change. What I have lost is all sense of charity. I have no love for God anymore. No faith, no trust. If there ever was a fount in my heart, it had dried up long ago.

“But you see, God never gave up on me. And so it is my duty to continue to obey, to submit. I still owe him my allegiance, even though every part of me wants to fight against it. The bagne is a place of darkness. But in my soul, it is so much darker.

“How do I know God still insists on laying claim on me? Because he’s shown me moments of grace. They’re like small reminders that I’m not allowed to let go. The Bishop—a new one—came to say mass here once. Even though they pointed cannons at us, I was able to partake in Holy Communion, my only time since I left Montreuil. I fell gravely ill last year and even the doctor thought I wasn’t going to recover. But the monks who knew me when I studied under them fifteen years ago prayed for me, and the next day I became well again. And last night –”

Valjean’s voice dipped so low that Javert had to strain his ears to hear.

“I stayed awake on my plank almost the entire night, feeling unwanted. I believed the world has forgotten me. But today –” He turned his head, hiding his face from Javert. “today, you came.”

_The nuns taught us that when we are in the presence of a saint, we would know it._

Here was a man who was clinging to nothing, neither hope nor faith, and yet remained dutiful in his daily labor and held on tenuously to his God.

 _He shouldn’t be here_ , the words resurfaced in Javert’s mind, swirling in a sea of tumultuous thoughts.

The law was just, he wasn’t questioning this even now. He truly believed that Valjean was in his well deserved hell, the hypocritical rich man who was cast off from Abraham’s bosom and burning in an eternal fire.

But the law wasn’t perfect. For he now also believed that Valjean ought to be given—what? An exception? A provision? A pardon? _Something_. Anything to secure him a future without the looming threat of being beaten to death.

If God had forgiven this soul, then what right did man have to withhold mercy?

Unlike Lazarus looking down from heaven on the rich man engulfed in flames, Javert realized there was one drop of water he _could_ offer.

“I –” He cleared his throat. Valjean looked up, the instinct of an ox, and Javert had to cough some more to lessen the strange constriction of his heart. “I will visit again.”

There was a sharp intake of breath.

For a long while, neither man uttered a word. Had he misjudged? For why would a condemned convict want to be brought face-to-face repeatedly with the very person who had hunted and jailed him? Perhaps Valjean had understood his words as a threat—the fanning of hell’s flame instead of the offering of cold water. And yet… _But today you came_.

“If you are not opposed, that is. I thought… this, went rather well. And since the law does not prohibit me from maintaining contact with criminals, I, ah, I suppose I can visit again. To ensure you are still here.” _Of course he’d still be here_ , his inner voice lambasted. But Javert couldn’t find better words. “That is, if you so desire.”

Against the droning of sea waves in the background, punctuated by the occasional command from the guards and whips falling on backs, Javert counted Valjean’s breaths. The rise and fall of those broad shoulders were erratic, so shaken was he that his breathing had become shallow and labored.

This was a man strong enough to break rocks, to be used as a human jack. And yet Javert could easily crush his soul with a few well chosen words.

Justice was being served, yes, but it had gone terribly wrong.

If he weren’t observing Valjean so keenly, he would have missed the barely perceptible dip of the green cap. “I’d like that,” came the whispered reply. Javert may well have imagined it.

He pushed his chair back and stood. His heart was racing and his body hot from a queasiness that originated somewhere from the pit of his stomach. He’d had enough; he couldn’t face a broken man—a good man, a better person than he was—any longer.

But he would keep his word. He would return.

“Until next time, Jean Valjean.” _Don’t die on me. Don’t you dare._

Valjean didn’t reply. But upon hearing his name, the tremor of his body sent the chains rattling.

-

Before returning to Paris, Javert stopped by the Chief of Guards’ quarters and demanded to have words sent to him should anything happen to Valjean. It was a threat to ensure no guard would subject Valjean to random cruelty. The Chief Guard had understood the veiled threat perfectly well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a happy chapter, I know... er, sorry? But next chapter will be better!


	5. Recognition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> True to his word, Javert visits.

**_Fall, 1830_ **

This time, when Valjean entered the room, he smiled. “Inspector, you came,” he said, and Javert tried not to dwell on the undertone of wonder in those simple words.

“I’m not about to be branded a liar by a convict,” he replied. _Hello to you too_.

Valjean’s smile broadened.

There were no requests this time, no business to conduct, no excuses for being nearby for a quick stop at the bagne. He was simply here to visit Valjean—an impossibility if not for his ties to one of the most influential Prefects in the country. Special family visit, he’d read in the document he was asked to sign each time he visited, to be passed onto the Chief Guard for approval. Did this make them a family, he and Valjean and Cosette? He’d caught the guards whispering to each other when he first entered the room. What did these guards think they were?

He tried not to stay his eyes on Valjean’s left shoulder as he sat, where an angry, fresh scab coiled around the base of his neck. _Does it still hurt?_ he didn’t ask. Did convicts ever get used to floggings?

“It was for insubordination,” Valjean said before he could turn his head away. “I defied the guards’ orders to leave a fallen prisoner behind. I helped him up and carried his load until we reached the dock.”

Another deed of Saint Valjean’s. (Madeleine was never real. It was Valjean all along.)

“Twenty lashes, then?”

Valjean grimaced. “They like to miscount.”

“You fool.” _You’ll get yourself killed one of these days_. Valjean was undaunted. _I know_.

They fell into a comfortable silence, Valjean in contemplation and he in observation. The past year had been kind to Valjean—or perhaps Valjean had been kind to Valjean, having finally found the will to cling onto the spark that brought life back into the shell. Life didn’t get easier. ( _Thirteen, fourteen, five… this is how we count here, boy. Remember this if you want to be a successful guard._ ) But the convict had found strength to hold onto goodness, to hold onto life. ( _See the ones going about their days like phantoms? I give them three months. Most won’t last two._ ) And if the term “flourishing” wasn’t quite fitting to describe the bleakness here, then Valjean was at least surviving.

The sun rose toward its peak position. It was approaching noon.

 

“Did I tell you, I used to be a pruner?”

“I recall how plants and gardens blossomed under Madeleine’s hands. You must have been skilled at your work.”

“The trees I tended to would yield the sweetest fruits.” Valjean smiled at the far wall as if he could look into Faverolles, into the past. “But there was no work during the winter months. When I committed my crime, it was February.”

Javert listened as Valjean talked. Take time to really look at the tree. It is the only way to know what a tree’s natural shape ought to be. Approach carefully. Keep its shape. The pruner’s task is to bring out a tree’s structural grace. Remove the damaged branches and thin out any excess growth. Yes, even the thicker branches. They drain the most nutrients from the tree. Those branches’ cores are dead, they will not yield fruit. ( _If a limb offends, cut it off._ ) But never cut off too much, for it will leave the tree defenseless. The weaker branches, if they are undamaged, should be given the chance to grow. ( _He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak_.) Allow time for the tree to heal. It doesn’t bleed, but the cutting is still destructive. ( _Be gentle. Be kind._ )

Valjean’s words were interspersed with the sound of metal chains, so engrossed was he in pruning the tree of his mind that his hands were gesturing wildly. Javert thought he may have glimpsed the young Jean Valjean, tree pruner of Faverolles. Soul still unsoiled, eyes still bright. A harsh winter with no food had destroyed that man, just like trees stripped barren by the cold months. Jean Valjean could easily be likened to a tree. This explained the facile connection he felt for all things of nature, for the color green.

_Here is the sturdy trunk pointing toward the sky, the straight back and broad shoulders of Jean le Cric, the laborer that can rival three._

_Here is the section of rotten wood, damaged by insects and starved by drought, the hate-filled prison years of those nineteen years._

_Here is the bark, rough and storm-weathered, the hard exterior of a terrible convict._

_Here is the stump of a cut-off branch, the scar of what remains. A life cut short by a rash decision of youth._

_But look up! For then you will see the top of the branches, a canopy of green. Life. Valjean’s favorite color._

_And just below… see the small branches that can be easily broken off and mashed into pulp, pages narrating the life of a good convict, a fallen saint._

_Here is the ideal timber for a polished oak armoire, the ingredient for a magistrate who lifted a town out of poverty._

_Here is the perfect branch that can support a nest, providing livelihood briefly for workers at Madeleine’s factory and funds for Javert and Cosette for a lifetime._

_Here is a hole in the trunk, at first glance an imperfection, a decay. But look closer, and you will see owls and squirrels making their abode there, weaker convicts huddled under the wings of Prisoner 9430_ , _Protector of the Weak._

_Here are the roots. They long to plunge into the depths of the earth; they yearn to see the green of gardens and to raise little girls as one’s own. But the roots found merciless stone instead. Nonetheless, this tree’s roots run deep._

_Here is the sap, the lifeblood of the tree, Valjean’s easy smiles and forgiving heart._

_Here are the acorns, the fruits of his labor: kindness and perseverance; a faith refined through trials that gleams like gold, like the warmest sunlight; the earned esteem from one Inspector Javert._

_Here are the flowers, unnoticed by all save for those who know to lift their heads toward the sky. They are beautiful._

_God prunes this tree. It is glorious._

“What are you thinking about?” Valjean asked softly. He had stopped talking a long time ago.

Javert gave an honest answer.

“Trees.”

 

“The waves, they never stop.”

He had forgotten the relentless sound of water crashing ashore and breaking into rocks. Toulon was never quiet.

“They don’t,” Valjean agreed. “But some days are better than others. Quieter, calmer.”

He eyed Valjean.

“Is this how you think of your existence here?”

Valjean returned his gaze.

“Today is a good day.”

 

The Chief of Guards insisted on taking lunch with him after his midday shift. Javert made the adjutant guards standing by the door swear by God and country and everything they held dear that Valjean would not be disturbed while he was away. “Bring the convict his beans,” the Chief Guard ordered. “We won’t be getting any work from him today.” Javert ignored the looks of appraisal sent his way. He and Valjean were abnormalities in this place that did not tolerate exceptions. Together, they made a curiosity.

“Why him?” the Chief Guard asked. _Why waste your time on a worthless convict?_

“He’s here because of me.”

“He’s here because of his crimes.”

Was this what he’d sounded like, all these years quoting law and justice?

“He will die here,” the Chief Guard reminded him. As if he could ever forget.

“I know.”

 

Outside, they were “convict” and “Inspector.” But in this room, Javert no longer thought in terms of titles and Valjean no longer cared for formalities—all except one. He was insistent in referring to Cosette as “your daughter.”

“By your definition, she should be your daughter too,” he tried to argue. “I may appear to provide sustenance, but we both know who funds everything.”

“But you can give her love.”

He couldn’t argue with that. And yet…

“Do you not also care for her?”

Valjean’s shake of head was sad.

“You do,” Javert insisted, “or you wouldn’t have remained here.”

He watched as the words slowly sank in.

“So I have a daughter,” Valjean said in a hushed tone, whispering each word as if treading on holy ground.

Jean Valjean of Faverolles came from a large family. If there were no hunger during cold winters and no Toulon, how many children would he have now?

They were a family, the guards were right. Far apart and unrelated. But Cosette was theirs, as surely as he now realized that Jean Valjean, his convict, had claimed him a long time ago.

 

“I have come to accept this life,” Valjean told him. “The chains, the labor, the nights spent on a plank, the guards.” He paused. “Even the injustice and the pain.”

He didn’t know how to respond.

“I look back on my life and all I see are wasted years. One single mistake. That was all it took. Do I regret it? Yes, more than anything. But who might I be today if I wasn’t shown how wretched I am? God works in mysterious ways.”

Javert didn’t disagree, but couldn’t quite bring himself to agree.

“And you?” Valjean added, and he realized this was meant to be a conversation.

He considered the past seven years of his life.

If there ever was a time for a confession, it would be now. Valjean ought to know, after all.

“I have come to accept my limitations. I will never be a perfect father. I cannot singlehandedly prevent all miscarriages of justice in Paris. I am not irreproachable before God.”

Valjean made as if to argue. He held up a hand.

“I have come to accept that I am in need of mercy, for I am still incapable of extending any.” He waited until he had Valjean’s complete attention. “You helped me see this.”

It was the closest to an apology he would offer.

He’d seen Valjean calm, surprised, sullen, delighted, and even furious. But never stunned into complete silence. Not like this.

God works in mysterious ways.

 

The sun was beginning to set.

“Are you staying the night?” _At the inn?_ Valjean didn’t need to ask. Javert would never set foot inside the guards’ quarters again.

“I’ve reserved a carriage to stand ready by evening. I must be on my way back to Paris.”

The guards were knocking on the door again. Last time, Javert told himself he should go when they knocked next. He decided to try their patience a bit longer.

“It’s good to see you, Javert. Thank you, for remembering me.”

It wasn’t often that he felt like his tongue had twisted itself into a knot, only whenever Cosette expressed her affection. It appeared that Valjean’s gratitude held the same power over him.

He extended a hand, a willing offer to a criminal, to a good man. Valjean hesitated. _Are you sure?_ He kept his hand out. _Yes_.

Last time they did this, it was to deceive each other: Madeleine, his identity and Javert, his veiled suspicion. This time, he noted that Valjean’s hand was warm.

Could there have been more, in a different life, under different circumstances? He didn’t dare ponder the possibilities. To have Cosette and to have this… friendship with Valjean were already more than what he had ever dreamed of. As a youth, he would think about the future and saw in his mind’s eye a solitary man dedicating his last drop of strength to the police until they no longer have use of him. And then—nothing. He never believed there would be anything beyond his work.

But his years turned out to be filled with storybooks and arguments about the validity of the nuns’ teachings with a girl who was growing up too fast, and conversations with an unexpected friend who was slipping away like sand through his fingers, elusive to his grasp except for one day a year. He thought back to the night in Montreuil-sur-Mer, when he had Valjean firmly under his grip, forcing him from hospital to station house and then into the prison cell. He hadn’t known to treasure those years when they were together. He wondered if it was too late now.

He gripped Valjean’s hand for perhaps longer than it was proper. If Valjean noticed, he showed no sign of it.

“Until next time, Jean Valjean.”

 

Later, he would go home and fancy himself telling Cosette of his visit. What did you talk about? she would ask. Trees and water. But there would be no such conversation. _I was away for duty._ Cosette would accept it without question. And Valjean would continue to remain a secret. It was as if once he spoke Jean Valjean into existence, Javert would no longer have him all to himself.

-

_Have you ever been in love, Papa?_

_I care for you._

_No, that’s not what I mean, though I love you too. I mean, have you ever taken one look at someone and your whole world brightens?_

_No._

_Maybe you shouldn’t work so much. We have everything we need. You should take more time to live life, not just work._

_The nature of my work prevents me from becoming attached to anyone. It is already a grave risk to have you._

_What about the bad mayor you go visit in prison every year? Do you love him?_

_How –_

_I’m not stupid, Papa. You’ve always only spoken of one person, I’ve figured it out._

_He –_

_Is someone constantly on your mind, someone important enough for you to take ten days of leave each year._

_When you grow up, Cosette, I promise I will tell you the history between us._

_But I am grown up! I’ve even – oh, never mind._

_You’re hiding something from me._

_No, it’s not important…_

_Is it about that boy?_

_What do you mean?_

_Don’t try to fool me. That boy at the Luxemburg who keeps gawking at you. Marius Pontmercy, of Gillenormand’s household, Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, No. 6. I’ve looked into his background._

_Oh!_

_Is he the one you have chosen?_

_I love him, Papa, and Marius loves me too._

_I suppose that is for the best. Go to him._

_But I’m not going anywhere! You must still be in my life. Me and Marius_ and _you. I love you, Papa. Always._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter manages to be a little more uplifting (given the context)! In my mind, I picture Javert dutifully visiting Jean Valjean once every year and they continue to get closer to each other with each subsequent visit.
> 
> But since I originally plotted this fic using the 5+1 structure, this means that the next chapter will be their last meeting. So all those annual visits will unfortunately be happening off-screen. As I have promised to give sufficient warning, here's a heads up that now would be a good time to imagine their happily ever after if you wish to read no further.
> 
> That said, I hope you'll stick with the story! I truly appreciate all of your encouragements so far and would love to be able to share with you the last leg of Javert and Valjean's journey together. Thank you!


	6. Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javert is a realist. He knows what lies ahead when he receives an urgent notice from the Chief of Guards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final warning: major character death -- done as delicately as possible but still, sadness ahead.

**_Summer 1835_ **

“Hi.”

The greeting was informal, insubordinate, personal. It was also the only word that Valjean could barely rasp out.

Javert sat down on the chair next to the infirmary bed. “Hi.”

Nothing separated them now, no bars, no chains, no table. In the heart of the Toulon bagne, Javert felt strangely free. He placed a tentative hand on Valjean’s shoulder, feeling the bony frame beneath the thin fabric of the hospital clothing. Over the years of his visits, Valjean had gradually lost his bulk. But the decline over the past months had been rapid. There was scarcely a trace of the impossibly strong man left in him now.

The gesture earned him a smile. “Cosette?” he mouthed. The sound that came out vaguely approximated the name.

“She’s officially Baroness Pontmercy, can you believe it? Her fool of a husband is still a ninny. But she is happy.”

Valjean’s eyes glowed with happiness. Javert didn’t resent this parental display of joy. Valjean had, if not in person, provided for Cosette through his funds and with his freedom. In some respects, he may even have been the true guardian.

“She’s old enough to understand all the sacrifices that her benefactors have made to support her through the years. She sends her regards and thanks you for your provisions… for your care.”

A frown began to form on Valjean’s face, and Javert raised a hand to cut off words that weren’t about to come. It was strange how well he had come to know Valjean, had learned how to read him when their interaction was limited to one day a year. Without fail, that would be one of the best days of Javert’s otherwise mundane, unvaried life.

“She needs to know,” he continued. “I could not have raised her on my own, not without your support. I will not lie to her about who and where you are. She ought to know that there is a convict in Toulon who is also the best man I have ever known.”

_Remember the bad mayor who did good things and the ultimate criminal who has always eluded me? His name is Jean Valjean. He is your benefactor, Cosette. Your co-guardian. A genuinely good man, the best._

Valjean looked embarrassed. One would think that, after all these years, he would have learned to accept Javert’s honest opinion.

“Her favorite color is green now, and I suspect it’s going to remain unchanged this time. Same as yours.”

A doctor came by to take Valjean’s pulse. Javert looked up. “How long does he have?” he asked. He saw no need to conceal the truth from Valjean, bitter as it was. They both knew Javert was called to Toulon by the Chief of Guards for one reason only.

The doctor shook his head. “It could be hours or days. He has been strong. I’m surprised his condition deteriorated so quickly, myself. Less than a month since he showed any signs of illness. We wouldn’t have noticed if the Chief Guard hadn’t ordered 9430 to be examined.”

“Jean Valjean.”

“Pardon?”

“His name is Jean Valjean.”

“Ah, forgive me. I was not given that information. I only know him as the Jack. But it seems inappropriate to call him that.” He glanced at Valjean. “Given the circumstances.”

Javert turned toward Valjean and ignored the doctor as he performed his duty of poking and prodding at his patient. It was a good quarter of an hour before they were once again left alone.

Valjean dipped his head slightly. _Thank you_.

He tried to be nonchalant about it. “It is your name, you know.” No one should have to pay a single _sou_ for having his name recognized, let alone two. This despicable practice so prevalent at the bagne was nothing short of bribery.

For the rest of the afternoon, he stayed vigil at Valjean’s bedside, telling him about Cosette, about the idiocy of young love, about life and death and revolution, about survival. _Cosette worries daily for my safety, for Paris’ streets does not take kindly to the police_. Heaven rewarded her for her kindness. One day, when she was trailing after Javert during his patrol, she spotted Marius near the garden in Luxemburg. _She’s never trailed after me since_. Did he like Marius? Not one whit. But he did save Javert’s life, having convinced his revolutionary friends that he was not a threat at the barricades and should be set free. He was there to convince the schoolboys to give up, to choose life over death. Only Marius listened. _He didn’t choose life. He chose love_.

The wedding was a tedious affair. _I almost wished you were there with me_. Almost. For even he wouldn’t be so cruel to Valjean. Cosette looked stunning in her white wedding gown. She then wore the most beautiful green dress at the party after the ceremony. She was a radiant angel. _I have never seen her so happy_. He turned down the offer of boarding at rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, No. 6. They were just married. He felt the need to keep his distance. This was over a year ago. Did he still feel the need to stay away? Perhaps. He couldn’t imagine what a Baron and Baroness would have to do with a policeman. _I am old, and they are young._ He had fulfilled his duty. Cosette no longer belonged to him. _Perhaps this is why God is now calling you home_. The bargain had ended. It was time for the convict to be freed.

He’d told Valjean many of this before, during his previous visits. But he felt the need to relay them again. It was as if he didn’t want Valjean to enter into heaven and forget about his sojourn on earth. He’d lived a hard life, but these moments of brightness shouldn’t be forgotten. _He_ didn’t want to be forgotten. _Remember me when you meet Saint Peter_. The words didn’t come out as the jest he’d intended it to be. His gaze drifted to where his hand was resting on Valjean’s shoulder earlier. He wasn’t sure who was supporting whom anymore.

Sleep claimed him at some point toward the late afternoon.

-

“Javert.”

He started awake. Dusk was making way for night. The lingering brightness of the summer day was fading away.

“I’m feeling better.”

His heart sank. He knew what this meant.

He’d seen it countless times in hospitals and beside the dying on Paris’ streets. Those who were gravely injured beyond hope of recovery would have a final burst of life before passing on—several minutes’ delay—as if heaven, upon receiving word of a soul’s imminent arrival, needed time to sweep the floor and put the kettle over the stove before opening its pearly gates.

He’d known this man for thirty years. For all but three brief years at Montreuil-sur-Mer, they were on the opposite sides of the law. But in truth, the wall that separated them had crumbled long ago. Once a year, Javert would set foot in Toulon; in return, Valjean had permeated his life—as Cosette’s benefactor; as the best day of his year; as the reason for anticipating his journey to the sea more eagerly with each passing year; as someone who held his past, his confidence, his heart. He couldn’t remember anymore why he once hated the man. For being a lawbreaker? A hypocrite? A thorn that constantly pricked at Javert’s conscience until he admitted defeat and conceded that the law wasn’t perfect? None of this mattered anymore. Now, Javert had never been more keenly aware of the fact that he wasn’t ready to lose the one constant in his life.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” he said. His voice was trembling too much. He wondered if Valjean could hear his almost-sob.

If Valjean did, he didn’t point it out. “I don’t have much time, I know. I’ve visited enough of the sick in Montreuil-sur-Mer to know. I’m thankful that God is granting me this grace. I’m thankful for you. Thank you, Javert, for remembering me. For bringing hope back into my life.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

Valjean shook his head and smiled. “You’re here.” This wasn’t the convict’s leer or Madeleine’s polite amusement. Javert would always remember this as Jean Valjean’s inexplicable favor, directed toward him. “The journey from Paris to Toulon is long, and yet you never skip a year. Not since that day when you saved me from death. You did, you do realize? I was withering away and would have given up completely had you not shown up and promised to come back again.”

“It is my duty to visit. You are Cosette’s benefactor. I need to update you on her growth.”

“Perhaps,” Valjean said in a way that Javert knew he’d meant the opposite. “Nonetheless, I am thankful. And you need to know that before I go.”

Javert stared at a spot on the floor. There were drops of what appeared to be blood there. He wondered if any of it could have been Valjean’s. He wondered who had occupied the bed previously. He wondered whether it was a greater mercy to heal the badly beaten so they may return to more torture or to simply let the injured die.

“I never apologized for knocking you unconscious that night at Montreuil. Please, forgive me.”

He looked up. Was Valjean making him his confessor? He was no priest qualified to administer the last rites and he most certainly was not a favored follower of God. He should be the one begging for pardon, for being more of a thief than Valjean had ever been. He’d stolen the prosperity of Montreuil-sur-Mer with his petty vengeance. He’d robbed Cosette of a rightful guardian—it was to Valjean that Fantine had entrusted her daughter. He’d deprived Valjean of an unburdened life that should be filled with happiness and peace. He’d been a thief, all in the name of the law.

His inner thoughts were tumultuous. But outwardly, he waved a hand. “It’s all in the past. There is nothing to forgive.”

Valjean smiled at him. “You’ve changed, Javert.”

Yes, he had.

“Cosette showed me love. And I…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it still, after twelve years of melodic laughter and trusting embrace that first started as a clinging in desperation but had melted into pure affection. _I love you, Papa_. She was always satisfied with a mere nod in return.

“Fantine is proud of you.”

He snorted. “Think what your charitable heart would make you believe, Valjean. I wouldn’t think she –”

“No, Javert, she no longer holds anything against you. She’s smiling even now.”

He followed Valjean’s gleaming eyes and looked behind him. There was no one.

“Valjean –”

“She’s here, she and the Bishop. Did I ever tell you about the Bishop? I didn’t only steal from a chimney boy after my release. I robbed the Bishop of Digne, stole his silver. You are right to think me a horrible man. I am. The gendarmes captured me the next day and brought me back to him. He was supposed to condemn me, but instead he gave me more silver, two polished candlesticks, and he bought my soul for God. He forgave me, Javert, when he had no reason to.

“I’ve realized in these last years, I have no right to rage against heaven. I deserve this, I deserve it all. But now the Bishop is here and I’m allowed to be free at last. Can you not see him, Javert? The Bishop, standing next to you?”

Valjean’s words were rushed, excited. An unnatural flush had colored his face like the piling on of rouge on a powdered face. It did nothing to mask the grayness of his sunken, sallow skin. Nothing would improve the condition of a man so near expiration.

Javert took Valjean’s hand in his, noting that heat had seeped into its edges. But the center of his palm was cold.

“Go to them,” he said softly. “Go with Fantine. Go to the Bishop.”

Valjean’s eyes met his. “You will not forget me?”

He shook his head. How could he?

“Javert… Remember me as the wretch that I am. Pray for my soul’s safe passage. I have much to atone for.”

After all this time, the saint was still utterly oblivious to his own goodness. But there was no time left to argue. He held Valjean’s gaze.

“I will remember all of you. You are Jean Valjean. Of Faverolles. Tree pruner. Favorite color, green. Committed theft at age twenty-seven. Sentenced to the bagne for five years. Served nineteen years due to escape attempts. Released with a yellow ticket. Immediately robbed a boy. Stole from the Bishop, as you have just confessed. Broke parole. Evaded justice. Became Madeleine. Appointed mayor. Denounced himself at the Champmathieu trial. Saved a girl’s life despite being imprisoned. Continued providing for said girl. Saved a man’s life at the risk of his own drowning. Chose to remain imprisoned. Worked as a slave and laborer with all his strength. Protected the weaker prisoners. Dutiful toward God and man. Still a saint, after all these years. Still a criminal. Still confounds everything I have believed to be true. Did I miss anything?”

His words were quick, chasing pace with his growing agitation, his anger at the good man’s losing battle with death. He gripped Valjean’s hand tighter.

“You are the best man I have known. It was an honor to have served you, Monsieur le Maire.”

He raised the hand.

“You are Cosette’s guardian.”

Not breaking eye contact, he pressed his lips to Valjean’s hand; it no longer felt warm.

“Above all, you are a friend.”

Valjean smiled.

He watched until the light left those eyes; the lingering smile was the last to go. With a final flutter, the lids closed, and Valjean was at rest.

Everything around him had gone completely dark.

“Sleep well.”

Jean Valjean was free at last.

-

Convicts’ bodies were cast into the sea. As a young guard, Javert had fancied the sea to be merciless, swallowing condemned souls and holding them hostage until it was time to turn them over to the burning fires of hell. But as he had changed over the years, so had the sea in his mind. The waters now seemed to offer unconditional acceptance, embracing each soul for a final cleansing before sending it skyward.

Valjean’s soul was already in paradise, perfect and gleaming. It mattered not whether his body needed cleansing.

None of the guards questioned him as he took a place in the procession of the coffin—a crude box holding the most precious body—marching toward the sea. As they passed the bunks and the work houses, the prisoners that lined the path all doffed their caps. Javert noted that many of the guards did the same. Valjean had touched more lives than he had ever been willing to admit. But gestures of respect did not lie; the crowd’s sendoff to Valjean was genuine.

They reached the edge of the water. The coffin bearers looked at him. He nodded.

And then it was done.

Javert did not weep. There was no need to. If God in his infinite mercy would allow it—for he greatly needed this mercy—they would meet again. Then, they would both be free.

“Until next time, Jean Valjean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I extend the canon timeline by a couple of years because 1) I believe it would take Javert longer to accept Marius into Cosette's life than how quickly Valjean did in canon, 2) Cosette gets to adjust to life outside of the convent without rushing into marriage, and 3) Javert gets to visit Valjean a few more times.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I hope the story rings true in its two "what if" premises. Whether you think it worked or not, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Much gratitude for staying with this till the end!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Rest](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4977181) by [MadMoro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadMoro/pseuds/MadMoro)




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